I'm Not Okay
by KSUnsungHero
Summary: I know it's coming and when I hear the words, I don't hesitate before responding. No, I'm not. I'm not okay.


I'm Not Okay  


  
  
The tires are spinning still, as if they have a mind of their own. The radio doesn't work, and I can't reach the one on my shirt. I guess I'm screwed. I can see out the shattered window. Everything is a bit hazy and blurry, and the images before me swim as though I'm on a raft in the middle of the ocean. I can feel the blood rushing to my head, as the black spots dance in my line of vision. It's as though they're mocking me, poking fun at my situation. I hear people crying in other cars, but I cannot help the occupants.   
  
I shut my eyes in an attempt to alleviate some of the pain forcing its way into my train of thoughts. The pounding in my head coincides with the drip-drop the rain is making on the underside of the car. I can feel the wetness running down the side of my face and mixing with the water that has come inside the cracked windshield.   
  
The pounding on the pavement of the footsteps assures me in a way. At least others are being helped. No one has offered me any assistance. I think because I'm a cop, people think I'm invincible or immortal. Maybe they think I'm just going to walk out as if nothing happened. I keep thinking of all the things they'll say to me. What's worse are the unspoken words. Soon they will glare at me. I'll see that look on their faces that tells me I should do more to help. That intense look of hatred directed at me for the things I cannot change in this world. If they only knew what I have to live with. In this heart of mine and this memory of mine, I keep all the things that would frighten even the strongest of men. All the events they can only think up in their most horrible dreams. I am the one holding it all inside so they might never have to know how utterly tragic life can be. They don't have a clue what it's like to be me, and they never will.   
  
I feel somewhat selfish that I want someone to help me. I mean, it's my job to help others, after all. It's just that sometimes I want to be normal. I want to tell someone about my day without getting looks of pity and sorrow at my "situation." I want people to help me, to ask me if I'm okay. And for once, I want to tell them that I'm not. I'm not okay.   
  
The sirens are getting closer now. I don't know how long I've been sitting here watching the feet scurrying to and fro. Maybe when the medics get everybody out, they'll have enough time to untwist this metal that is holding me in. The airbag worked, I'll say that much. Too bad it's coming out of the steering wheel that is somehow lodged up against my chest. That's going to leave some pretty colorful designs under my uniform. I wonder if it was supposed to rain today. I always wanted to be like Janetta Jones and Jim Cantore from the Weather Channel. I really need a life. I wonder how much they are on e-bay.   
  
I know I'm not supposed to sleep, but I really didn't get that much last night and it's starting to catch up with me. Maybe somebody will wake me when they're about to pull me out so I don't have to use the jaws of life as an alarm clock. I wish I had one of those black masks that block out the sunlight. They're not attractive but they do the job. I bet if I had one right now I'd be asleep already.   
  
I hear someone talking to me, and I think they're worried. I couldn't have been asleep for more than twenty minutes. I don't feel rested at all. Sully's talking to me. He and Bosco are looking at me through the window. Suddenly, I feel like I'm part of a circus sideshow and all the sudden someone's going to talk about me over a loudspeaker. I don't have any special talents or anything, aside from the fact that if I try real hard I can hold my breath for thirty seconds. I tried once, really. You get pretty bored at the Academy listening to Ten-Codes and procedures all day. Kinda reminds me of right now. I knew I recognize those little black spots from somewhere.   
  
Bosco and Sully are still reassuring me they're going to get me out. They look worried. It's nothing a few days off won't cure. If this headache would go away, I'd be one happy camper. I think I'll keep the steering wheel after they cut it off. Might be fun to have for when I retire someday. Some people keep the bullets they get shot with or the weapons they get hit or stabbed with. Me, I'm going to take this bad boy home. I'll be the only in the precinct to have a steering wheel of an RMP. I feel kind of proud at the moment. How many people can say they have a steering wheel mounted to their wall? Thought so.   
  
I bet that's hard lifting that big saw. I'm glad it isn't me. My mood has soured a bit. I'm thinking of all the people I could have saved, had I gotten the chance to. I hope and pray noone was killed. I couldn't live with myself if a life had been lost. It wasn't my fault, I know that. The driver ran the red light and I just happened to be in the way. The other drivers that got involved were just pawns in the sick game of chance that life is. The blanket is removed from the window and I can see out the door now that it's gone. I should be relieved, but I'm not. I don't want to see what's out there. I don't want to have to look at the carnage waiting outside the door. It feels so calm and safe in here. I've spent many nights in here, but this time is different, and I don't want to leave. Bosco wants to help and I see him working at the steering wheel. He feels responsible. We both know it's not his fault, but deep down I can tell he blames himself for not being here. Somehow I don't think the courts understand when you don't show up to give an eyewitness account. Call it a guess. It was only for a few hours and after dinner I was going to pick him up. That was the plan.   
  
I can see the determination in his eyes as he pounds away at the nuts and bolts holding the wheel on there. He looks over every now and then, as if telling me he's trying his best. The tears behind his eye lids left unshed tell me he's on the verge. With a great amount of effort, he breaks the wheel and lets Doc and Carlos in. Stepping aside, he never takes his eyes off me. It's our connection, our lifeline. It doesn't take long to get me out. They're working pretty fast to check my reflexes and make sure I don't have any spinal injuries. I know the drill by now. They will transfer me to a backboard, then a gurney, then get me stabilized, then transport me to Mercy. I'll wait there for hours to be checked out, because if I'm awake and alert then I'm not really that bad off and there are others who need help. I'll stay the night since I have a head injury, and the next day I'll be home resting. Here we are in the ambulance. Doc tells me I'm going to be taken to Mercy to get checked out and I'll probably have to stay the night. Yep, I'm good.   
  
Bosco hasn't left my side since we got here. He keeps staring at me like I'm going to melt away before his eyes. I know he's concerned. I'd feel the same way if my partner were in an accident. I got off lucky and didn't have any major injuries. Luckily the others in the accident didn't have any either. Not even the guy who ran the red light. Guess someone was watching over us today. I reach out my hand to Bosco. He takes it and gives me a small smile. He hasn't spoken to me since we got to the hospital. I think he's afraid he'll finally lose it and bruise his masculinity. Before the tears start to spill he gets up and changes his gaze to the window. The rain has stopped but somehow I have the feeling it has just begun for him. I want to help him but he needs his time. We both need time. That's something we will have more of. More chances to ride together. More jokes and laughs. More chances to save lives and even lose some. We'll get more hateful looks from people who don't understand. We'll get a few hugs and thank you's that will pull us out of our bad moods.   
  
Bosco hasn't moved from his place by the window. He's looking out at the cityline, staring at that one place I've glanced over at so many times before. The void that fills the sky and our hearts. Somewhere someone is doing the same thing. Someone will walk up to that person and ask them if they're alright. They'll sit down and talk. Tears will fall, sobs will break out, anger will come and go, and anguish will fade as the sun comes up. That person will make it through. Like so many others, that person will stand tall and know they have made it another day.   
  
Bosco is driving me home from the hospital. He's quiet. He gets that way when he doesn't know what to say. When he pulls over against the curb I know what he wants. I unbuckle the seatbelt and look over at him. He's not brushing angrily at the tears falling down his face. He makes no attempt to stop their journey down the stubble and onto the seats of his car. He looks at me intently, pleading with his eyes for me to talk to him. For us to talk. Just talk. As friends, as partners, as mere mortals. I know it's coming and when I hear the words, I don't hesitate before responding. No, I'm not. I'm not okay. I could ask him the same, but then again, I know what the answer will be.   
  
  
  



End file.
